


Quality Goods

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, Established Relationship, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harold Finch attempts to solve the esteem issues of Lionel Fusco via application of fishnet stockings and blow jobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quality Goods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).



> Note that this may possibly be triggery for body-image issues type things. I think it's super-mild but better to be safe than sorry.

"I got you some things," is the first thing Finch says once he's in the hotel room, words practically tripping over each other. Fusco resists the urge to say _of course you did_ , because if he did he's not entirely sure he'd be able to keep that little edge of bitterness entirely out of his voice.

So he just goes, "Hello to you too. Yeah?" and Finch nods, head bobbing. He's breathing shallow, Fusco realizes; his bug eyes bright behind the thick glasses. He's got a big shopping bag under one arm.

"Okay, let's see 'em," Fusco sighs with a resigned smile. He sits on the edge of the big-ass bed and Finch sits down next to him, squirming a little on the mattress, all eager for him to open his present.

Finch looks like he's eight and it's Christmas morning, so fuck it, can't hurt, right? Finch wants to spoil him with new shirts, finer shirts than any he's ever owned or dreamt of owning, or ties or handkerchiefs or these Jesus-God-save-my-bod Italian silk boxers, well... it's not the first time now, and it's not the worst thing in the world, to live with having a sugar daddy.

That's what he thinks, anyway.

Then he opens the bag, and the box it contains.

He stares down at the things in the box with his cheeks heating, mostly embarrassment but some anger too. It's a colder, crueler sort of humor than he'd thought Finch capable of-- it's the sort of thing he could see from _Reese_ , maybe, Reese in an especially dick mood and wanting to remind him he's nothing more than fat-bastard-whipping-boy-Fusco-- but he's stupidly started to think that maybe Finch kind of likes him, that there's some fondness there along with the fucking, and so this blindsides him and he's feeling betrayed on top of humiliated.

Lionel can't make himself look at Finch. He's probably doing that superior little smirk thing, thin lips curled at the corners. Lionel stares down at the mess of _lace_ and _red_ and shimmery little satin in the hue of _bitch_ and decides that, you know, he doesn't actually have to take this shit.

"Real fucking funny," he says hollowly, and puts the lid back on the box. "Cute. Cute. You want sucked off tonight, let's get to it, I got shit to do at home."

"—what?" Finch says after a few seconds. Got that tone of bemusement down cold, Christ, give the man a fucking Oscar. "I... I thought... you were spending the... night..."

Fusco shoves the box back into the bag. He doesn't quite mean to, not so hard at least. It's just that it still stings, and why does it _sting_ , why's he such a stupid fucking asshole that he lets it _sting?_

"Yeah, well, plans change," he says thickly. "I got other things to do than be the butt of a joke all fucking night, okay? _Okay?_ Just because I'm your guys' bitch doesn't mean I'm an all-day pussy too."

Shit. Too much. He let the sting leak into his voice, stupid. Stupid. Showing meat to a dog, 's what he's done. He puts the bag to one side, puts his palms on the knees of his trousers feeling the scratch of the fabric, bracing himself to stand, and bracing himself also for something dry and amused and nasty from Finch that he'll replay in his mind for a couple of days when he's supposed to be working.

In his peripheral vision he can see that Finch has gone still.

"Jesus," Fusco mutters, and rubs his palms against his knees. "You want me to blow you or what?"

Finch takes ten seconds to reply. Very quiet. "Only if you want to. I'm... sorry. I thought you might..."

The _shit_ is this? Fusco feels all the impotent anger up in his face right now, turning him a probably really ugly shade of brick red, he bets. Cuz that's his color. Brick red, scab red, angry red. Not fucking Victoria's Secret red.

"You thought I might _what?"_ he says helplessly, and finally looks at Finch. Finch with his millions of dollars and his tailored suits and his intelligence and cool dignity, Finch who nobody would dare give women's lingerie to, fucking shame, it'd do him _good_ to be on the receiving end maybe.

But Finch isn't smiling. Finch sits there looking sort of-- sort of small-- shoulders a little slumped in his expensive suit and his eyes on the plush carpet.

Finch looks sad.

"I thought you might like to try them," he says quietly, and bends down stiffly to pick up the bag. "Clearly I was mistaken. Please, forget about it. If you have other things you need to do with your evening, that's fine, detective."

Fusco sits there trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, which is par for the course for his life. His anger's flailing around in the greater tar pit of not understanding anything ever. After a few seconds he just laughs-- not funny ha-ha-- no, a confused, bewildered laugh.

"You thought I might want to _try them?_ What-- okay-- okay _what_ would make you think I'd want... I mean _Jesus,_ Finch, they're... Jesus, you got me-- you got me goddamn lacy women's underwear."

Finch's face is half turned-away but all the same he sees a slight, slight flush of answering color in those cheeks. Finch licks at his lips, brief and quick.

"...we-ell they're not-- _women's,_ " Finch mutters.

Fusco stares for a few seconds. His mouth is hanging open. He should probably close it. But first he's got to process the thought that Finch might actually have, uh, have genuinely thought he'd wear the things in the box. It's a thought that floats around in his mind seeking something remotely familiar to connect with, and finding not a damn thing.

"Uh," he says eventually. "Uh. Well, uh. That's good because I wouldn't. You know. Fit. In women's."

"They were, um, custom-made in your size," Finch says, and yeah, his face is definitely a little pink now. "I wanted them to be comfortable."

Haaahhhnn? Fusco stares another five seconds then closes his mouth. At least half of this is because Fusco doesn't think he's ever had anything 'custom-made' his entire life.

\--okay except for the _other_ shit Finch keeps buying for him. Technically that's the same thing, right? A shirt made to his measurements is custom-made, so that's not any different than this, right? Except that it _totally_ fucking is.

And now he's got the mental image, want it or not: Finch in some, uh, some place that makes things that are red and lacy, Finch giving his measurements to someone who would have to _know_ that these things were not going on a woman, by those measurements alone. Finch not caring what conclusions were being drawn. Money lets you have that sort of indifference, or at least, Lionel thinks it might. God knows he's never had the cash to try out that particular mindset.

Finch is getting up from the bed, carrying the bag over to the other side of the room, limp, limp, limp.

"Wait," Fusco says, mouth a little dry. "Wait, look. I just, uh. I didn't mean to be.... you know... ungrateful, or anything."

"No, no," Finch waves away his words. "I misjudged, Lionel. It's not important."

"How much did you spend on them?" Lionel can't help but blurt out, because tact is so clearly his thing.

Finch gives him that tiny lip-purse of _no_ that he always does every time Lionel asks how much something has cost. Like the big hotel room they're in. "That's not important either."

"Please," Lionel says, surprising himself. "It is. Right now. To me. Just... just how much?"

Finch stops his shuffle, gives him a look that's kinda tired and kinda pitying at the same time. "Would it make any sort of difference?"

"It might."

"It shouldn't," Finch says, lips thinned again. "I've no interest in you entertaining something you find repulsive just because of a sense of monetary-driven obligation."

 _That's not it,_ Fusco thinks. _That's not really it at all._ But he can't phrase the words right to himself, let alone aloud, so instead he just pushes himself up from the bed and crosses to Finch and snatches the bag back from his hand. Fusco digs down into it, ears burning, but dammit, he's going to at least look at them this time.

Stubbornly he moves back to the bed, sits down again, puts the box on his lap and opens it once more. He takes the things out, one at a time, conscious that he's still red and embarrassed and awkward but conscious also that Finch is watching him the whole time.

There's this shirt. That's not the word, though. A teddy? Most of the satin he'd seen had been that. Little thin lacy straps that look like they couldn't hold up a butterfly's dick. It's lipstick red, strawberry red ( _bitch red_ ). It weighs practically nothing in his hands, and his hands feel very large and rough and fumbling as they brush against the sleek, thin fabric. There's little panels cut out of it and replaced with sheer lacy mesh, and a lace bottom hem too.

It's big enough, he thinks stupidly. It's his size, which means it kinda looks like a frickin' tent in his hands and not the dainty scrap of fabric these things are supposed to be.

He swallows and sets it down on the bed and picks up the next bit.

Panties. You can't call 'em underwear, _panties_ is the only word that fits. Same red as the top. Lace. Lots of lace. There's stockings tangled up with them too, or so he thinks until he realizes it's all one piece pretty much, the stockings are part of the panties, red fishnets dangling down down down as he lifts the panties out of the box.

Beneath all of those are-- sweet fucking _Christ,_ really? a pair of shoes. Heels. Tiny heels, but heels all the same. Red shiny leather. He'd say women's shoes except he has to admit they're not women's shoes anymore than the clothes are women's clothes: they're just too goddamn big. He lifts one out, gives it a lost look-- yeah, it would fit him, he thinks-- then sets it carefully back down in the box again.

Okay. Okay, he looked at them. That was all he was committing himself to do, to at least _look_ at them, and he's done that and now they can go back in the box and his hands can stop itching.

Fusco throws a glance up at Finch, and forgets what he was thinking.

Finch is right where he left him when he took the bag from him, the center of the carpet, except that Finch has one hand on the back of one of the room's chairs, white-knuckled, and Finch is _staring_ at him.

Finch's lips are parted and his eyes are fixed and dark and big behind the thick glasses, Finch's cheeks are dull and flushed and Finch is breathing soft and shallow and if anyone's ever looked Lionel Fusco's direction with such raw filthy _want_ then Lionel Fusco can't recall it, thanks.

All the air's gone out of the room, Jeeeeezus. Lionel gulps down some pointless breaths, fingers curling into the lace of the panties. He doesn't think it's a joke anymore. Not with Finch looking at him like _that_. But he's got to ask. He needs to hear it.

"You.... you really want to... to see me put these on?"

"Yes," Finch answers almost before he's got the question out. "Yes. Yes, please, Lionel."

Shit. Okay. Okay. Fusco takes a breath and puffs his cheeks up with air, studies the ceiling, then nods and exhales.

"You're the boss," he says, trying to make a joke of it but Finch doesn't even hear him, he doesn't think. Just keeps staring. Those eyes follow his hands (his thick, meaty hands) as he reaches for the top button of his shirt.

Lionel unbuttons his shirt and Finch doesn't move the entire time. He'd already had his jacket off, waiting for Finch's arrival; he fumbles his shirt-buttons open, his fingers itching and twitching and trembling. When he lays his shirt down on the bed Finch moves at last: to come over and silently pick up his shirt and take it and put it on a hanger in the hotel room's enormous closet. Like it's even worth a hanger.

Each article of clothing he takes off, Finch takes away from him. It disappears into the closet and now he's naked, on the bed's edge, and naked he can do even if he feels like a fat schlub, but now he's got to get _dressed._

Fusco hears his own breath speeding up, nervous and flustered. He holds up the panties and stares at them. The fishnets are a tangle of thin red lines; how the hell do women put these on?

"Let me," Finch whispers, and takes them from his stubby fingers.

Finch puts a hand down on his bare knee and by the time Fusco processes what he's going to do Finch is already doing it: kneeling down gingerly, in front of him. Fusco's heart jams up into his throat and stays there, getting in the way of his breathing.

He wonders if he's sick, really sick, that he likes Finch kneeling down before him when it's obviously not the easiest thing for him to do. That's twisted, right? That every careful movement Finch makes as he eases his fucked-up body down to kneel makes Lionel bite his lower lip? That's probably sick.

Finch takes a breath once he's down. "…could you hand me a pillow," he asks.

Fusco swallows and nods and grabs one from the headboard, offers it down nearly dropping it in his haste. Finch takes it and shuffles onto it so that his knees have got some cushioning beneath them, and then reaches down and takes one of Lionel's feet in his hands.

He does not have lovely feet. He knows this. He is aware of this fact, thanks. He'd hung out a lot at the gym when younger and got the requisite athlete's foot which had left him with these raggy nasty toenails and his feet are just, you know, _feet,_ sweaty by the end of the day from his loafers. They're no fucking works of art.

He knows that, and it's a fact he's got to remind himself of right now because if he were going by how Finch touches him alone he might get some weird ideas to the contrary.

Finch runs those manicured hands of his, those hands with their precise fingernails under which there is never any dirt, with their soft palms and soft fingertips, over his foot, toes to sole to ankle. Finch's fingers close around his foot and rub it, slow and gentle, thumb digging into the ball of his foot and kneading at those points that get so damn achy when he's been on his feet half the day. Finch strokes the backs of his fingers over the top of Lionel's foot, and that tickles, or something very like tickling, cuz it makes his foot twitch and sends a little shiver up his leg.

"Didn't know you had a feet thing," he says eventually, because Finch has been silently touching his foot for like three minutes now, nothing else, just his foot, and he's gotta say something cuz it's bordering on weird.

"I don't," Finch says very softly, rubbing his thumb around the joint of his ankle, digging into the flesh where his shoe usually presses. It's a little sore. Finch rubs until it's not sore and then he reaches for the panties-fishnet combo-thing and starts unrolling one of the stockings onto his foot.

"I have a spoiling-you thing," Finch murmurs, and Fusco feels himself going brick red from his face down to his chest.

 _Jesus H. Christ, why?_ he'd ask, but his mouth is dry. So Lionel just curls his fingers into the thick bedspread and breathes through his nose while Finch rolls the fishnets up his leg, to his knee.

"Other foot," Finch says, and Lionel lifts it mutely. Finch spends just as much time on his left foot as he had on the right. By the time Finch breathes, "Stand up, Lionel," Fusco feels like he's itching all over, and he's half-hard too, his dick flopped against his thigh and his fingers almost hurting with how hard he's gripping the bedspread.

He stands. He rubs his hands against his thighs, fidgeting. Finch starts sliding the panties and fishnets up from his knees, up around his thighs, and nudges Lionel's hands until Lionel takes the hint and takes the panties and starts pulling them up.

He can't believe he's doing this. He looks down his body at Finch. The other man has settled back onto his heels, has his own palms flat on those expensive wool trousers he's wearing, and is wordlessly watching him wrestle up the lingerie.

It works easiest if he just looks at the top of Finch's head, his spiky hair, and doesn't think about what he's doing. Except they're-- _snug--_ as the fishnets get pulled up he can feel the lines pressing into his thick calves and chunky thighs and it feels confining and too small and he's breathing faster, not in a good way, and the lace stretches a little but it's not going to be enough, Christ, he's probably gonna _tear_ the fucking things, this was idiotic, how the shit did he ever let himself think this was gonna be anything but ludicrous--

"Stop," Finch whispers. Lionel shudders, letting go of the tops of the lacey short-shorts with a strong sense of relief. Okay, okay, good, Finch changed his mind. Ha ha, it was a joke after all. Take them off now, detective. Right?

Finch reaches out for Fusco's hands. Lionel exhales unsteadily when Finch's hands close around his own; he only realizes his own fingers are shaking when Finch has stilled them. Jesus. Jesus he's losing it. He's standing here trembling and hyperventilating with some goddamn fuck-me panties stuck around his fat thighs and his dick hanging there sad and unsure and what even the _fuck_ is his problem, what is _wrong_ with him that his life leads him to places like this?

"Lionel," Finch says. "Lionel, look at me."

He resists. But Finch waits, down there on his knees, and it's niggling guilt that makes him look eventually, because he feels bad for Finch and his head craning back at that obviously not-too-comfortable angle.

He swallows and he looks. Finch is still holding onto his hands, and gives him this tiny little sad smile.

"There, that's not so hard, is it?" Finch asks, and squeezes his fingers. "Now breathe in."

He obeys without thinking about it. Deep breath in, his eyes seeking out the ceiling until Finch tugs at his fingers and draws his eyes back down.

"Good. Now out. Fill your lungs, then let it out."

Finch's voice is calm and steady. The way it is on the phone when they're working. Simple directions. That's good. Lionel can breathe a lot easier than he can do things like break into the offices of Internal Affairs or pull files he doesn't have the authority to access or ride along with HR for an extortion run. Breathing's not so bad.

"Good," Finch says again. "Very good, Lionel. Keep breathing."

He lets go of Fusco's hands and starts running his hands down Fusco's legs instead. It feels funky. His skin's divided into little diamonds and Finch's fingers tripping over them, over the lines of the stockings and the squares of his skin, feels very different from how Finch touches him normally. Finch's fingers curl around the backs of his thighs, the backs of his knees, down his calves all the way to his ankles and then back up. Finch rubs his legs slowly. Finch kneads the backs of his legs with his palms, through the stockings, and Fusco keeps taking deep breaths, his eyes held by Finch's blue ones.

"Lionel, I'm going to pull these the rest of the way up," Finch tells him. "All you're going to do is breathe. If you want me to take them off after that, I will."

His tongue's thick and dry in his mouth. Fusco says, "Okay." It takes three tries.

Finch kneels up again, back off his heels, his clever fingers finding the lace and starting to tug.

"They're not gonna fit," Lionel protests, and Finch murmurs _shhh_ and Lionel shhes.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands, cuz all he's been told to do is breathe, so after a few seconds of helplessness he very cautiously settles them on top of Finch's head, on top of the gravity-defying hair, and Finch makes this soft little approving noise that makes things maybe better. A bit.

Finch is careful and his fingers are nimble, circle his hips like little birds-- yeah, he thought it, he went there-- like little birds making a nest, twig after twig and somehow making it work except it's not twigs, it's just Finch carefully tugging the lace higher. Finch has him turn around, and spends a minute doing nothing but gently squeezing and playing with his ass, exploring his butt as if he actually likes it for more than a place to stick his cock or something, and Fusco does his best not to think about the thin red lines crisscrossing his legs and just think about warm fingers on his ass instead. It gets his cock back into things a little bit, a little bit.

Finch pulls the panties up the rest of the way. The last bit is his front where his cock's kind of a problem. Finch takes him in hand (in his dry clean soft hands), and scrupulously pulls the lace over him, and tucks him into it neat as he probably folds his goddamn pocket squares, boom. He's in. They're up. They're snug, his cock's trapped down against his skin and his balls are also mooshed right to his body, it doesn't hurt but it's like wearing that pair of tightie-whities you really ought to have chucked out two trouser sizes ago, it doesn't _hurt_ but it's not exactly comfortable either.

Everything is just really crammed in, and the lace kind of itches, and he still feels motherfucking _confined._

"Very good, Lionel," Finch says, and leans forward and nuzzles against his prick through the lace.

"Jesus," Fusco gasps, because he was not expecting that, and Finch's face is warm, his cheek soft, probably a function of whatever thousand-bucks-an-ounce aftershave the guy uses, and the lace is this thin barrier between him and Finch except not really, because heat and touch still get _through._ The closest he can compare it to is wearing a condom, really, except there's more sensation than that. The lace rubbing against his skin its own thing.

And Finch doesn't pull back. Finch just keeps his face right there, pressed into his crotch. _Burying_ his face there against him, making soft throaty noises as he rubs his chin, and nose, and lips against Lionel's cock and balls, through the stupid lace. Like a fuckin' cat trying to get its scent all over you, or is it the other way around? Fuck if Lionel knows, all he knows is that Finch has his lips open now and is goddamn _mouthing_ him through the fabric, hot and wet and the lace kinda scratches and his hands are gripping in Finch's hair and the backs of his legs are up against the bed although he doesn't remember giving his body permission to do either of those things.

Finch's tongue probes at his captive balls through the lace and Fusco whimpers. His heart's banging in his chest, Chriiiist. Finch's hands skim down the backs of his legs again, this time with a little kiss of his nails, and press at the backs of his knees and Fusco comprehends that order so he drops, sits his lace-wrapped ass down on the bed very obediently.

The motion causes the tights and the panties to tug and pull and press in ways he is unaccustomed to. Finch's mouth travels right with him when he drops, barely any interruption.

"Jesus," he gasps again when Finch's tongue probes at the bottom edge of the short-shorts, slides in beneath the snug edge and worms its way against his dick in a not-dissimilar fashion to how Finch sometimes insinuates fingers into his ass during sex. Lionel parts his legs not even waiting for the hands at his knees to suggest he does so, just spreads them like a dealer's girl jonesing for her dimebag, boom. Oh yeah, he wants Finch's head in there.

When Finch eventually pulls back his face is pink, his lips pink too and swollen and wet, and there's the beginnings of a lace-imprint pattern on his cheek. His glasses are half-fogged and he slides them off to wipe them clean. Fusco stares down at this sight dazedly.

"Do you want me to take them off," Finch asks, quick and breathless, getting the formality out of the way and fuck him for knowing it's a formality at this point.

"'s cool," Fusco says weakly, and Finch's naked eyes flare with triumph and heat before the glasses go back on.

"Good," Finch says simply. "Keep breathing, Lionel."

It's good advice. Fusco knots his hands into the bedspread again while Finch reaches into the box and pulls out the red pumps. He considers asking if Finch is okay down there, still kneeling, cuz if he's not, then Fusco could probably get them on himself, but a) the only time he's asked if Finch was okay during sex had been their first time, and Finch had answered he was _fine_ and proven it by grabbing a handful of his ass and leaving crescent nail marks and that had fucking hurt; and b) he wants Finch down there on his knees like he is, he wants Finch to caress his legs and feet some more.

God, he's hard. He looks down at the foreign sight of his cock tenting scarlet lace. At the equally foreign sight of his legs crosshatched with thin scarlet stripes. The threads of the fishnets dig in, just a little, enough that he knows he's wearing them but not anything like he'd feared-- not anything like the cartoonish mental image he'd had of his flesh bulging through the gaps in the stockings. Whoever Finch paid to make these had done a damn good job getting them the right size.

Finch settles down again and takes one of Fusco's feet and puts it in his lap. Fusco swallows. Finch's trousers feel fine and scratchy-soft against his foot, through the solid section of the stocking.

"You look so lovely," Finch says, staring up at him.

Fusco's startled into honesty. "Bullshit," he mumbles.

"You _do,"_ Finch corrects him, sharply. He grabs Fusco's ankle and tugs his foot an inch further up until his toes are pressing against what is undeniably a bulge in Finch's trousers, warm even through the wool.

" _Feel_ this," Finch orders, not letting him pull his foot away. "That's how hard I am right now because of how you _look,_ Lionel, how you feel, how much it _excites_ me to see you like this."

Lionel closes his eyes but does as he's told. He probes at Finch's groin with his foot, holding his breath. Yeah. Yeah. Finch is hard. Jesus. And Finch moans when he rubs his foot there, Finch presses against him and there's all these goddamn _textures_ that aren't a part of sex in Fusco's normal experience but are right now. Silk, cuz that's what Finch dresses _his_ dick in, those silk boxers he favors, and the wool trousers, and whatever the stockings are made of, fuck if he knows. Nylon? Polyester? Not exactly his area of expertise. But all of them rubbing together, like, like this is high- _class_ sex or some goddamn thing.

Fusco thinks he could keep this up for a while, just rubbing the sole of his foot against Finch's tented trousers, but Finch stops him and holds his foot still again. The shoe goes on. He'd been worried it was gonna be a fucking ugly stepsister kinda thing, toes and heel crammed in tight and painful as he desperately tried to _fit_ (to fit some role, any role, in his life neatly and cleanly without needing to cut off some important bit of him), but the shoe fits just right, slides right on, and Finch lifts that foot and places a very deliberate kiss on the toe of his brand-fucking-new grenadine-red shoe.

"You see?" whispers Finch, hot and close, breath warm on the top of his foot, "you see? Do you see?"

Fusco isn't sure that he does but he nods, thick fingers knotted into the bedspread. There's this wall in his throat that blocks words anyway.

Finch puts the other shoe on him. They have these delicate little straps and even tinier little buckles that wink shiny in the light. He bets he couldn't fasten them, or at least, not on the first try. Finch has no problem with them.

He's worried Finch is going to want him to try to walk in them but Finch doesn't say anything about that. Finch just guides his feet carefully back to the floor and resumes running his hands up and down Lionel's legs, like he simply cannot get _enough_ of him.

"Is this okay?" Finch asks.

Fusco laughs, shaky and raw. "I guess. I guess. Yeah. I'm hard, right?"

He is, and it's painfully on display in the panties-- the tip of his dick is actually jutting up now over the lacy edge, an uglier and more organic red than the lace-- and Finch's eyes accordingly dart there like a hummingbird, but then back to his face, and Finch doesn't seem satisfied.

"Is this okay, Lionel?" he asks again, leaning in to rub his cheek against Lionel's fishnetted inner thigh.

The breath leaks from him in a wheeze. "Yes," he whispers. "Yeah. 's good."

"Will you put on the camisole for me, Lionel?"

There's this kind of whimpering noise and he realizes it's him, that he made it. Lionel's fingers release the bedspread in a little spasm and move to his thighs instead, plucking at the red threads that cross and crisscross his legs. Finch's chin is resting on his knee now, Finch's eyes looking at him over the thick frames of the glasses, eyes bright and alert and reading his every inhale.

"If you want me to," he manages.

"I want you to," Finch says.

"Okay," says Fusco, and reaches trembling fingers for the box.

He waits to see if Finch wants to help like he did with the stockings and the shoes. But Finch shakes his head, _no,_ and says, "This one's all you, Lionel," and there's that little noise again from his own throat, tiny and wet. It's all him. Can't blame it on anyone else.

He shudders as the satin settles around his body, cool and light and barely there. His vision's filled with red until he tugs it down and pops his head free. The straps rest on the slopes of his broad shoulders, his boxer's shoulders, like afterthoughts, and the satin ghosts against his chest and his belly and now he's back to wondering just what Finch did pay for this because, like the shirts Finch has given him, it's not _tight_ anywhere. That's always the problem with what he gets off the rack, it's made for someone taller and so whatever he gets, whatever size, it always ends up being too loose in one spot and too tight in another, constricting and miserable, so he does what most husky guys do and just buys until it's big enough that maybe it's a boxy fucking drape on him but at least nothing's pinching.

The shirts Finch gets him are made with just enough room everywhere and so is this. Fusco tugs it down around his middle, biting his lip. All he can think about is that he's sweating like a pig and has been for a while.

"I'm gonna ruin this," he points out, and Finch arches a brow at him from down on his knees, his eyes reluctantly sliding from the teddy to Fusco's face.

"I'm sweating," he clarifies shortly, unhappily. "That's hell on satin, right?"

"Then I'll buy you another one," Finch answers immediately. "And it's not satin, it's silk."

"What's the difference?" Fusco asks because of the two things said that's the safer one to focus on. Finch smiles ruefully, as if to say the difference would be lost on Fusco. Out of everything that's what brings the miserable anger back again.

"See?" he says before Finch can get the first words out. " _See?_ You see how pointless this is? I don't even know the goddamn _difference,_ you're wasting this on me--"

Finch jerks in a way that Lionel will belatedly realize was meant to be Finch lunging to his feet, except that Finch can't lunge, so it's more Finch popping halfway up, then wincing and falling face-first against him, Finch's glasses and nose smashing into his barrel chest that's covered now by silk or satin or whichever the fuck it is.

He steadies him on reflex, hands going under Finch's arms until Finch can get his feet under him again. "Shit, you okay?"

 _"Yes,"_ Finch snaps against his ribs, and Fusco feels a phantom twinge of remembered pain in his right ass cheek.

"Hey, you know what, shut the fuck up, you just _fell._ I'm entitled to ask that if you fucking _fall."_

Finch finds his feet, straightens up with a red face and his glasses askew. Fusco scowls up at him, a bulldog in a red teddy. For a second they glare at each other.

"It's real funny that you're worrying about your dignity when _I'm_ the one in lacey panties," Fusco says darkly, and Finch blinks.

"...point," he says after five seconds, and Fusco grunts and nods. Yeah. So there.

Finch takes a breath, one hand at the small of his back before he drops it. "I was getting up to shut you up," he says ruefully.

"Yeah, how were you gonna do that?"

Finch shows him. Finch bends down and kisses him, real thoroughly, and pushes on his bare shoulders until the bed's under his back. And Finch has a knee between his legs, bumped against his lace-wrapped dick and balls. Finch and his thousands of dollars of tailored self are on top of him, sliding and rubbing against the silk and the lace.

Fusco swears against Finch's thin lips, into the kiss. Finch's hands grab the side of his head and hold him still. Finch's tongue presses hungry and sharp, determined, like he thinks that if he just kisses Lionel hard enough Lionel will turn from frog into something prettier.

There's fine wool under his fingers, the shoulders of Finch's suit. He tangles his fingers into it and kisses back, trying to lose his knowledge that he's just Fusco, he's no prince or princess or anything else, no matter how you dress him, in the hot demand of Finch's mouth.

Then Finch starts rubbing that knee against him and okay, that helps him lose all sorts of knowledge. That helps him turn his brain right off.

Finch grinds against his trapped dick. Lionel's chest heaves in the shell of red silk, and he scrabbles at Finch's skinny stiff shoulders for purchase. They rub against each other and it's the texture thing again, Finch is still fully goddamned _clothed_ but his vest and shirt and tie are sliding against Fusco's belly through the silk. He can feel individual buttons on Finch's clothes.

He tries to get one foot up on the bed for some leverage. He forgets he's wearing the heels until the pointed heel digs into the bedspread and catches and something rips, shitshitshit, but Finch doesn't notice or doesn't care. Finch's mouth twists around until it's on his neck. Short wet bites and each time he groans-- lower, lower, gotta be lower, he just can't have anyone at the precinct _see--_ and Finch translates his groans okay and doesn't start _sucking_ until his mouth is down on Lionel's collarbone where nobody will see the marks.

His dick throbs in its skimpy prison. Little wet at the tip, he's leaking, probably getting it on the teddy or the panties or both. If Finch is gonna be angry over that there's not a hell of a lot he can do about it, he's _hard_ and Finch's trousers rasp against him with every hump of their hips.

Finch kisses him and kisses him, and then pulls back with both their mouths swollen. Finch pushes himself down Fusco's body, dragging against his captive prick with every inch he moves. Finch stops with his head over Lionel's chest, and uses his mouth to find the bump of one of Lionel's nipples.

Sucks on it through the silk.

Lionel swears. Lionel swears a lot, while Finch bites at him and licks at him and tongues the silk wet and sodden so it clings to his skin. Lionel's hands slide from Finch's suit to Finch's hair, and he rocks up in helpless twitches of his hips, dick pushing against Finch's belly. Maybe leaking on his _vest._

He thinks about his precum smeared in a damp little trail on Finch's windowpane vest. He thinks he might like to do that, might like to dirty an article of clothing that costs more than he makes in a week.

Then Finch slithers the rest of the way back down off the bed, putting his mouth back at the level of Fusco's dick again, and Fusco stops thinking again.

Finch goes at his dick like it's forbidden candy. Like he has to get as much of it as he can before a door slams and somebody gets home, like they're having an affair, like that's why he can't take the time to even pull the panties down. Finch gets his mouth on him, through the lace, and goes to _town._

All this time his hands are moving, non-stop, over Lionel's legs and the fishnet stockings. His fingers insinuate themselves beneath the strands of the fishnet, splay over his pale thighs and squeeze and grope. His hands find Lionel's ass-- the fucking shorts only go about halfway down, or maybe they're just riding up-- and fondle his butt in big handfuls, pressing the lace into his skin, he's going to have the imprint of it on his cheeks he's pretty sure. Cool. Whatever. _What_ ever.

Down to his ankles, back up, and throughout this Finch just doesn't stop with his face buried in Lionel's groin. It's a little dizzying. Not that Finch can't be intense-- oh yeah he can be intense, Fusco still remembers his raw shock after the first time they'd screwed-- but this is the first he's ever seen Finch so... so... he doesn't know the word. He doesn't have Finch's vocabulary.

"What-- what's a word--" he gasps, ragged, as he rocks and rocks against Finch's hungry, hot tongue and against chafing lace, "--for uh... uh when someone's just... fuuuuck... fuck, like. All about feeling good? Just letting go?"

Finch lifts his head, face sweating and pink. The glasses got lost at some point, which Fusco regrets not noticing in the moment because he likes it when Finch lets him take them off him. Finch's pupils are blown and his hair is dark with perspiration.

"Hedonistic, maybe? Uninhibited?"

"Okay, those'll do," Lionel breathes, and tries to push Finch's head back down (not hard, not ever hard, he's horny as fuck but he's not a _bastard)_. To his surprise, Finch lets him do it.

Fusco shudders and bunches his shoulders, kicks his feet around just for all the additional feelings, weird as they are; the silk sliding on his sweaty belly and the shoes kicking against the bed, getting scuffed maybe, and the panties-and-fishnets pulling on his skin in all directions. He's really close, he's pretty sure. If it wasn't for the damn panties he could stick his dick _in_ Finch's mouth and _go_ for it, but as it is he's all bunched and tight and hostage to how Finch wants to do this.

Which makes things pretty much par for the course, just in red lace.

Finch slides a hand up his leg and off it and that hot mouth lifts. He gets a little breathing room, Fusco does, and sags there on the big bed with his lungs heaving, his own breath ruffling the hairs on his chest where the teddy doesn't quite go high enough to cover them. Fusco stares at the ceiling, his hips still twitching in little circles, cock aching for Finch's mouth back on him.

Because he's looking at the ceiling he doesn't see Finch getting a finger wet with spit. He jerks when it worms into his panties, slides damp between his asscheeks.

"Shiiiiit, aw Jesus..."

He spreads his legs, restless, red-faced, wanting to _come_ already. Come on. "Go ahead," he pants to Finch, who instead rubs that finger back and forth against his asshole. The panties are stretched to complete tautness now that they've got both a straining cock and Finch's hand to accommodate, and the lace is cutting into his ass.

Finch rubs and rubs and Fusco twitches and pants. He can't see Finch's face from here, bastard's just down below his line of vision and fuck if he's sitting up.

"Come _onnn,"_ he begs, and Finch responds by taking his hand away entirely, fuckety _fuck_ , and leaning up and rubbing his cheek against the red silk that's clinging to Lionel's sweaty, hairy belly.

"Fuck," Fusco whimpers, but settles a shaking hand on Finch's hair anyway. His cock's trapped against Finch's pale throat; he doesn't know if it's his own thundering pulse or Finch's he's feeling. "Jesus Christ. Jesus. You really-- you really get off... on the c-clothes... don't you?"

Finch lifts his head and stares at him, his eyes huge in his flushed face.

"No, Lionel," he says. "I get off on quality."

Finch's fingers tug the panties away from his skin. His cock pops out like a fucking jack-in-the-box, eager, throbbing and almost purple. It gets freedom for about two seconds before Finch's mouth is enveloping him, savoring him, as if he were indeed _quality._ Warm and wet and soft and completely fucking mind-blowing.

Does the job. _Christ._

It takes him a while to get thinky after that. When he starts making sense of things again it's to realize Finch is on the bed next to him, on his side, rutting against him. Still fully dressed. Finch's eyes tight shut, face drawn in terrible concentration as he dry-humps Lionel's hip, rubbing, rubbing, silk and wool and lace.

"Nhh," Fusco mumbles. "Jesus. ...you wanna hand?" It's about all he feels he can offer right now.

"Yes," Finch pants, and seeks out his wrist, guides him there. Fusco's glad all he has to move is one arm. The rest of him is done for. He gets his fingers around Finch's hard-on through his clothes, squeezes and grips with no particular dexterity just right now but it's good enough if the way Finch bucks hard against him is any indication.

"You gonna come in your pants?" Lionel asks in a whisper, head tilted to be able to watch Finch. He's a little fascinated and appalled by that idea both. This is Finch. No _way_ is he dirtying his fancy pants.

"Possibly," Finch says between shallow breaths.

Okay, maybe he is. Fusco imagines that: Finch creaming his shorts, stain soaking through to the front of his trousers. He gives Finch a firm, deliberate squeeze that earns him this strangled _noise,_ this tight little _moan,_ and also gets him Finch's hand seizing at his forearm, those trimmed nails digging in hard.

"Uhnn," Lionel breathes, and gets himself together enough to roll onto his side with a grunt. There. Now both his hands can reach. He fumbles with Finch's belt with one hand, keeps working him with the other. "I got a better idea," he tells Finch, who's sweating and thrusting and maybe half-gone.

"...what's-- that--?"

Fusco sticks his tongue out between his lips in concentration as he gets the belt open, gets Finch's trousers undone with his still-clumsy fingers. He makes his answer by reaching into Finch's shorts, grabbing his dick, pulling him on out; then he snakes a hand around to the small of Finch's back and tugs him in close. (Gentle, gentle.)

There. There, now Finch's dick is hard and hot against his own softening one, against lace and the tops of stockings and the bottom of the silk teddy.

"Go to town, buddy," he whispers. Finch moans like he's forgotten how to do English-- yeah him, mister genius-- and starts dry-fucking against him.

Lionel has a helpful streak-- really, he does-- so he spits into one palm and sticks that hand down there, lets Finch fuck through his fingers too, get the spit smeared on him. Every little bit helps, yeah?

And Finch gasps, and clutches at Fusco's chest, balls his fists into red, sweaty silk that probably cost him a lot of money. Finch presses his face into Fusco's solid shoulder, and pants against him with every thrust, every shudder of that busted body of his. He looks like he's hurting, but he kinda always looks like that when he's screwing, and Fusco knows better than to ask.

Fusco experimentally puts a hand on Finch's ass and helps him rock, squeezing, feeling the silk beneath Finch's trousers sliding around under his hand.

Finch comes. Finch comes pretty hard, jerking against him like a fuckin' epileptic or some shit. They both get pretty well hit by his jizz.

****

Finch insists they both shower. Of course. Fusco doesn't argue; he's got nothing against being clean and it's a relief to get the silk and the stockings and all that crap off him. He definitely doesn't wriggle his shoulders a little when it's gone, or wonder if he should have tried to take a few steps in the heels just to see if he could. Definitely not.

Finch claims the shower first and Finch doesn't shower with anybody else, which is also cool, because that's just a little too prison-sex vibe-y for Fusco. So he has some time to think, in between Finch claiming the bathroom and his own turn.

Maybe time to run a silk camisole through his fingers, maybe, but nobody's there to see so if he does, so what.

Later they're in the big bed, Finch sitting up with like ninety percent of the pillows supporting him and his glasses on, his light on too, so that he can read. Fusco figures that Finch probably falls asleep at some point, but it's always some point after he himself does, and Finch is always gone first in the morning too, so he has no actual proof of that fact.

Maybe Finch leaves as soon as he drifts off to sleep. He hopes not. He likes to think Finch stays through the night.

But for now Finch is reading, Newsweek or some crap like that. Fusco's cuddled up with the one remaining pillow, feeling lazy and sleepy but fighting it cuz once he's out, man, he is _out_ , which means it'll be morning and Finch'll be gone.

He's got his feet tangled with Finch's, and Finch has a hand on the back of his neck, those prim fingers absently stroking at his nape. It's nice. Nothing's gonna hurt, any time soon.

There's no sound but Finch turning a page every ten seconds (Fusco still refuses to believe he's actually _reading_ the pages). The sleepiness is winning when Finch says, out of the blue, "Six hundred and thirty dollars."

"Huh?" Fusco says, blinking himself back awake.

"That's what I paid for your things today."

Fusco blinks, blinks, blinks. $630, fuck. He could get the car's AC fixed for that, probably have change left over, and instead it's a pile of now-ruined lingerie on the bathroom floor.

"Jesus. Jesus, why?"

"Because I can and because you were quite fetching in them."

Lionel makes a disparaging noise and shakes his head into his pillow. Finch's fingernails bite briefly at the base of his neck, then soothe it away.

"Yes, _you were._ I... I wanted you to have some.... some nice things."

Lionel lifts his head, squints up at Finch, whose eyes are fixed on the page. "You've _gotten_ me nice things," he counters. "The shirts. That belt. You didn't need to get fuck-me clothes too."

Maybe Finch smiles. Hard to tell. "I wanted to get you some nice things that nobody but me would ever get to see you wearing," he clarifies, and Fusco laughs despite himself.

"Well. I think you fucking accomplished _that."_

This time, Finch definitely smiles.

 


End file.
